Brian Hamilton

Damn Pride

I had to stop for a second when I read the postscript in A’s e-mail, that my simplicity shames her (since I gave up my cell phone). She meant it seriously but offhandedly, not that it brings her shame in any real sense but that she admires the act of casting off possessions, and not only admiring but sharing my motivations—a compliment. I stopped, though, not because of her word choice but because of the timing of her words: I did not at all expect them. The occassions are rare when I do not anticipate a compliment before it comes, most likely because everything I do is at least partially motivated by compliments, by esteem. (This is a confession, not an affirmation.) Reading A’s statement, as tangential as it may have been, constituted for me the first realization that giving up my cell phone really was an act of simplicity; that is, I hadn’t thought about it as simplicity before Andrea said something. In fact, I feel in retrospect like I barely thought about it at all, because I can’t name a single reason I gave it away. It seemed common sense; I barely used it, and it drew $50/month from my bank account. Thinking back further, though, I did realize once before that this was an act of simplicity that would be respected by those who desired simplicity. Immediately after I gave it up, I told Ben about it on the way back up to school—he vigorously congratulated me, and then too caught me off guard.

Something feels sadly different about these two compliments from most of the other moral compliments I receive. First, that they were unexpected suggests to me that the action found motivation in something other than praise—which of course every action should. Second, that I forgot so thoroughly the first that the second could bring equal or greater surprise proves that each failed to inspire any sort of lingering pride.

Which means most (if not all) of my other actions find at least some significant motivation in praise, and most (if not all) other compliments inspire in me at least some sort of lingering pride.

I see this more clearly now, but not for the first time. The past months have been full of similar revelations, mostly through my inability to keep my mouth shut about each new moral attempt. Subconsciously I must know that even if I fail (or never begin), my having tried will bring respect, so I speak each idea clearly to as many people as possible. C gets this more than anyone probably, maybe because she affords me much more deference than necessary already (of course, because what’s necessary is none), and I feel some urge to live up to that. Or more likely because I desire to be deferred to, because I am violent and selfish, because I wish to elevate myself above the rest and false piety is my damning vessel.

Pride is so utterly inescapable. Even now, I ponder whether to publish these entries to my main site where all the world can see. Originally to counteract this pride—isn’t public confession supposed to bring humility?—but I know that I’m lying again: to let people read this would bring me more esteem, not less. The only real place humility can be found, at least for me, is in silence. I can breathe not a word about my moral strivings, and only if I am willing to continue in total silence can I be sure that my heart tilts towards God and not towards prestige.

Ben’s right that I have to fail. I want to fail in everything, because I think it’s to only way to escape this detestable pride. How could Paul ever ask anyone to imitate him without falling victim to the same thing I have? Maybe he was victim, and I just can’t see. Jesus would certainly have had a few things to say to me—I’m just a new version of the Pharisees.

In times like this, I hate ethics. I hate that I care about ethics. I hate that God really does make me hurt about living rightly and loving rightly and thinking rightly. How could I ever teach ethics, be that prophet I too often dream of being, with such overwhelming pride forever sucking the life out of my soul? Maybe ethics can’t be taught, only lived. (But Jesus taught ethics.)

26 December 2004 |
tags: Personal